To Speak Well of the Dead
by nathan-p
Summary: In loving memory of Nathan Prescott, 22 March 1964 to 28 July 2008, our friend; in memory as well of Jeb Batchelder, 29 December 1971 to 28 July 2008, devoted friend and loving father.


It's too early in the morning for this; July even manages to work up a cold (though blue-skyed) morning, as if to say that it, as a month, disapproves of our human shenanigans. Or, in some cases, only mostly human.

I have a jacket, so I don't shiver while we stand there waiting in the courtyard. I'm not here out of morbid curiosity, like the college-age kids probably are, and I'm not here so that I can write about this execution, like the woman shivering where she stands, next to the wall for a better view.

I'm here because I asked to be here. Because one of the men scheduled to be executed this morning is my closest living relative. Because I want to say goodbye to him, though I never got to know him very well.

His name is -- was -- Nathan Prescott. His forty-fourth birthday was this past March. No one is going to feel particularly bad about his death -- except me, and maybe some other people he knew.

I don't understand why he has to die. If he were ill it would make sense -- but he's not ill. And he didn't do anything wrong -- not that I know of, anyway, and I've only known him for one and a half years. (It would be two this October.)

They dragged him out of his apartment, I know that much. And I know they tortured him last night -- I couldn't sleep, because all I could hear was him, screaming inside my head. Endlessly.

It hasn't been that long since they found him, but it seems like years since they started looking -- looking for anyone involved with the School or Itex in any way. And Nathan was hiding one of the major suspects. That's why, they say, he has to die -- because he was hiding someone (who they've already started comparing to Mengele) in his home. Hiding him, they fail to mention, so he wouldn't have to be shot like a dog, up against some blank concrete wall.

I'm already starting to hate them -- hate _her_. Not the little blonde girl -- she's too young, I rationalize, she does what the older girl tells her -- but the oldest girl, the brunette with short hair and hard brown eyes. She has a cruel face, and I don't trust her.

But I can't say that. Not now. Not when she's stalking into the courtyard, looking more regal than she has any right to.

She's like me, not fully human, so I should feel some kind of kinship to her -- but I feel nothing. Almost nothing, anyway; I hate her, dully, because of what she is.

Officially, she's an adviser to the President, or something like that. But we all know what her little blonde _friend_ can do with her mind, and everyone knows that because of the power that little girl has, this other girl, this _Maximum Ride_, is practically the President herself. And she's not even eighteen yet.

There's a small crowd by now -- twenty or so people, not as many as will pack this courtyard later, but enough to make a real crowd. We hear a muffled sound from inside the building -- and I drop to my knees in pain.

I know it must have been a gunshot. Because Nathan is dead, and now -- now I'm hearing, seeing, _feeling_ the things he kept locked up inside.

It _hurts_. I don't know how he managed this when he was alive -- it's like nails have been hammered into my skull.

Then the pain goes away, and I hear his voice, once, saying my name. No one else hears it -- I check, discreetly, afterward.

"Oh, Anna," I hear him say. He sounds so tired, and yet he sounds almost cheerful.

I get back to my feet, letting Melanie help me up. She's a sweet kid -- too bad it's her birthday today.

Max is crumpled on the ground, and I don't laugh, but let myself smile. I'm _glad_ that she had to suffer. I know she's killed before -- though you could make the case it didn't "count" -- but now I know she feels like a killer for the first time. She'll go home this afternoon or evening with a terrible headache, and she'll never forget this day.

At least I hope that's what happens to her -- it's a dark fantasy, but it feels _right_ in my head, though I know it's wrong.

She gets to her feet, nodding that she's okay to the dark, tall one -- Fang is his name. It doesn't suit him.

Neither did Nathan's name -- his real first name was Artaxiad, and Nathan was his middle name. I don't know when -- or if -- he told me this, but I know it. He never seemed like much of an Artaxiad, anyway.

He was so pale -- I remember that he and I shared the same skin tone, though our eyes were different colors. He was my grandmother's brother's son, he told me, but we still looked oddly alike.

They drag a man out of the prison by his wrists; there's blood on his jacket, and his dark blond hair is cut short and ragged.

A bigger crowd has gathered now, and we stand pressed shoulder to shoulder as they drag him up onto the gallows. He's shaking, I can see that much even from here.

This is the reason Nathan's dead -- this man who seems so fragile now, who tosses his head back to flick the hair out of his eyes. I never got to meet him, but I know his name -- Jeb Batchelder.

He's Max's father, and now that I'm looking I see the resemblance -- the hair, the lines of the face, the way he stands.

They put the noose around his neck, ask if he has any last words.

I can't hear him, or maybe I hear only what I want to hear, because this is what he says:

"Ave atque vale!"

His voice shakes, but I hear him well enough -- and I hear him still when he drops through the trapdoor, because I know what those words mean. They're the Latin for "Hail and farewell".

And then I see everything. It's not as bad as with Nathan, but I see enough to know him well -- to realize that I can pity him, though he is dead, and though he brought death to me.

I see something else, though -- brief, hardly even visible, but enough. Just a flash.

It's him, looking a little older and wearing his hair longer, giving some kind of speech.

So I smile, because whether or not this is true, whether or not it's really him, it makes me feel a little more hopeful about the future -- if only mine, not the future that should have been his. Because the man I see is standing up to Max, in the way that I don't dare.

Why should it matter?

He's already died once.

* * *

Because I just couldn't manage a really sad ending.

Seriously, though, this is dedicated to all those who have died because of prejudice in the world. (I'm sure you know the names of one or two or more.) And also, of course, dedicated to those who strive for progress against prejudice.


End file.
